


Advent: Hope

by FyrMaiden



Series: Klaine Advent 2015 [8]
Category: Glee
Genre: High Fantasy, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Queen Elizabeth dies and her rumoured son disappears, the lands falls into mourning and shadow. And then one day, a man appears, wearing the sword of the royal house, bringing with him the hope of salvation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent: Hope

**Author's Note:**

> This really is more of the beginning of a story which I may some day write. Until such time, it is a one shot advent piece. <3

When Elizabeth, beloved queen and renowned beauty, dies suddenly and unexpectedly, her soul takes with it into the afterlife the last light of the kingdom. The days grow long and cold, and, though the sun continues to rise, ascending swiftly to heaven, the heavy gloom remains low over the land. Laughter fades, becomes a memory and an echo, and the people become shadows, shuffling through their lives. The years drag on, and the rumours of her heir - a boy child, with eyes like the summer skies and skin like winter snow - that were once whispered with such hope become legend themselves. The longer they go with no one on the throne, only the regent who does not come down from the palace, who lets the poorest starve, the more they start to believe that the boy was only that - a rumour. That Elizabeth had died as childless as the naysayers and doubters believe. The crops in the fields whither and die, and the people starve, and still there is no hint of the boy upon whom so much hope is pinned.

Time passes, and hope dies, and people learn to survive in the barren waste that was once their home.

In the twentieth year after the queen’s passing, a young man rides into town. His horse is large and solid - built for war, they’ll say later - with a coat black as the night and hooves so heavy they shake the ground. Its nostrils flare and its head rolls, and it rises to its back legs as the crowd draws in. The rider leans forward, whispers quietly to the horse, and it settles again. He sits back up and looks around, and slides slowly from his steed. His booted feet thud on the cobbles, and he keeps his horse’s reins in one hand as he steps forward. He wears the golden armour of the Guard, emblazoned on the chest with the sacred symbol of the House of Hummel. He is tall, imposing, and at his hip is a sword, its scabbard polished leather, its hilt both ancient and familiar to the older folk drawn by commotion. That hilt belongs to the royal family. A whisper begins to pass through the crowd. Could it be - It can’t be - 

The young man draws close enough to a woman in the crowd. He stops to speak with her, though she loses her tongue when she sees him up close. Behind the nose guard of his helmet, deep beneath, his eyes glitter blue as a spring morning. She cries and falls to the ground, and the man steps back from her as the crowd presses closer, vying to see. The man takes a step back, and his horse paces, and when he speaks, his voice carries across the square, a hush following in its wake.

“Too long,” he says, his armour glittering like the forgotten sun. “Too long have been the years since my mother passed, since I was forced to flee. I beg your forgiveness for abandoning you. I did not believe we would fall so far or so fast, but I have wandered long and far and have found the help which we have needed. I cannot take back the palace alone. The evil behind those walls does not sleep. But now is our time to rise up, to take back my mother’s lands. My name is Kurt, and I am your prince.” 

A whisper rises at the sound of his name, a whisper that grows in volume enough that it drowns out the sound of more horses approaching. Two more of the large war horses pick their way through the crowd, one silver and one gold. The silver is ridden by a man in the same golden armour of the Guard, with the house crest emblazoned on the chest plate. The gold, though, is ridden by a boy in plain armour, though the chest plate does have the crest painted onto it. His riding cloak is old, full of dust and mud, and he wears no helmet. His black hair is styled close to his head, and his wide eyes are full of shock. When the horses draw to a halt, Kurt steps closer and holds up a hand to help the boy down, and then passes him to the taller knight, his hair as blond as his horse is silver, to keep him upright. 

Turning to the crowd, Kurt speaks again, gesturing toward the boy, now being helped to drink by the blonde knight, and says, “We have found out hope with the Mages of Westerville. They have records in their vaults, and we believe he can get us close enough to the Regent to destroy her power forever. We can bring back the glory of our past-”

The whispering begins again, and a voice, louder than the rest, “We’ve heard this before, sir. Ain’t never worked before. The Mages’ powers are weak, sir.” 

Kurt’s smile is slow, and he gestures for the blond to bring the boy forward. “Sam,” he says. “Bring him.”

Sam is slow to respond, his face concerned as he brings the boy forward slowly. The boy looks tired, and is barely able to support his own weight. He shakes his head as he wraps an arm around him firmly, speaks in a low hiss meant for Kurt’s ears only. “This is madness,” he says. “He’s not ready. He needs sleep.”

“We need proof,” Kurt whispers back, and the boy glances between them.

“I can do it,” he says, and Sam snorts.

“You don’t know what ‘it’ is,” he says.

“I just need a parlour trick. Make the wind howl. Rattle the damn shutters, do whatever,” Kurt says, and the boy blinks slowly, exhaustion clouding the clear honey warmth of his eyes. He straightens his spine and steps forward and looks up toward the sky, clouded heavy and grey as it has been forever. He blinks slowly and murmurs an incantation below his breath, and then holds his hands toward the heavens and parts them slowly. 

Sunlight beams down yellow on the square, hits the cobbles and the assembled crowd and makes his horse shine brilliant in for a moment before his breath hitches and he collapses slowly inward to his knees, kneeling on the cobbles with his head bowed, closing his eyes when blood spills from his nose and drips to the ground between his hands. He looks up when Kurt kneels before him, resting a hand on his cheek and leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“Thank you, Blaine,” he says softly, and then, louder, “Sam, can you find us lodging? Blaine needs to sleep, to gather his strength for the days ahead.” 

There is noise from the watching crowd, and above them, the clouds begin to close again, softer than before, whiter. A woman pushes her way to the front, small in stature but large in spirit.

“Let me help you,” she says. “I have a place you can stay. My fathers’ own a house on the edge of the city. We have lands, stables. You could build your army - let me be a part of this; the Regent stole so much from us, let me take it back.” 

Kurt looks her over, her earnest eyes large in her face, reminding him a little of Blaine, and he nods his head. “Can you ride? Could you ride my horse?” 

She nods her head, and Kurt gestures for Sam. “Go with her,” he says. “I will follow shortly.” 

Sam inclines his head, and the woman steps forward, her hands large and sure when they touch Blaine, help Sam to bundle him up on to his horse, and then she reaches for Kurt’s reins. She allows Sam to boost her onto the beast’s back, and she looks down at Kurt, resplendent in his armour. 

“Head east,” she says. “Keep heading east.”

Kurt nods and reaches for her hand. “Thank you,” he says, and watches as she and Sam ride away with his Mage, with Blaine. When they are gone, he turns back toward the palace, and begins the slow walk to his childhood home.


End file.
